


I'm gonna be here till I'm nothing.

by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce)



Series: Somebody To Die For [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, Russian Mafia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisNameWasAce/pseuds/YourFadedGlory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude sank to the ground, his hands pressed to his ears trying to block it out, trying to block <i>them</i> out. It didn’t really help though, he could still hear them through the walls and through his hands. He could hear them screaming, beating the doors with their fists and their bodies, trying to get to their captain, trying to get to Sid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. |December 16, 2013|

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from, but I apologize for it anyway. As always all mistakes are my own.
> 
> While I don't think anything in this fic is especially violent, I will caution you that there is a fair amount of blood involved, so if that isn't your cup of tea I'd advise that you find an emergency exit.
> 
> There was also quite a bit of hand waving going on in regards to Danny still being with the Flyers, and the issues with the locker room doors. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **“With my last breath, I’ll exhale my love for you. I hope it’s a cold day, so you can see what you meant to me. ”  
> **  
>  ― Jarod Kintz

Pictures lay strewn across the table, private moments of gentle intimacy and reverent affection made physical before his very eyes. The memories came rushing back as he traced the captured images with shaking fingers, a small smile forming on his bloodied lips.

Geno’s laughter, warm and booming echoed in his ears. The phantom weight of arms wrapped around his middle, whispered admissions of love, and the press of kisses to the back of his neck.

Sidney remembered Geno’s dark eyelashes, frosted with the gentle snowfall of their first Christmas together. He remembered the taste of cinnamon tea on Geno’s lips when they met his, hidden away in the safety of their home.

There were date stamps on the bottom left corner of every picture, but he didn’t need them to know where each moment had been captured, or when. 

The lights of the carousel in Central Park, the worn wood of the pier on his favorite lake in Nova Scotia, and the empty plain of ice at Consol cut only by their skates...he knew each image with startling clarity, moments that belonged to just him and Geno.

Except there they were, spilled over the small wooden table, for anyone with eyes to see.

A gloved hand reached out and stroked through his hair, grabbing a fistful of Sid’s curls and yanking his head up. Ice blue eyes stared down at him mockingly, scared lips twisted into a cruel smile that made the hair on the back of Sid’s neck prickle with unease.

“You love him.”

The words formed slowly on his lips, thick with an accent that Sidney had once loved and now feared. He spat the word ‘love’ as if it were a childish joke, an adult lecturing a child that ought to know such sentiments were a privilege they weren’t worthy of. 

“I do.” Sid breathed, pleasantly surprised by the strength in his own voice. It didn’t waver or crack as he’d thought it would. A steady conviction dripped from his words, a devotion that sat heavy in his stomach where the terror in his veins could not reach it. 

The vice like grip on his hair went lax, smooth leather tracing his jaw with the gentleness of a lover.

“Wrong answer.” 

His hand crashed against Sid’s cheek with a vicious crack that left him reeling, black dots dancing in an out of his vision, blood splattering the photos spread out before him.

“I do, I love him.” Sidney bit out defiantly, meeting his capture’s cold gaze without hesitation.

Something in the cruelty of his smile became genuine, satisfaction gleaming in his once dead eyes. Whatever it was that he’d wanted, Sidney had just somehow given it to him.

“Then you’re going to die.”

Sid’s stomach sank, the shreds of confidence he’d been clinging to ripped from his grasp as he watched the man pull a blade from his pocket and methodically saw through the rope that bound his wrists to a chair, slowly letting him free. 

Without preamble he hauled Sidney to his feet and started redressing him in his hockey gear, expertly hiding away any physical evidence that would exist as proof of his time in captivity. 

“You will exit your locker room discreetly and without explanation to anyone or anything during the intermission before the third period. When there are only two minutes remaining in the intermission you will skate to center ice and you will kneel, and when time expires you will die.” 

A sick sense of contentedness colored his tone as he gave Sid his instructions, as if he were telling him about the pleasant weather, and not giving him marching orders that would take him to his own death.

Exhaling stiffly, Sid took his helmet when it was offered to him, tracing the eighty-seven with the pad of his thumb. “You’re a murderous lunatic.” He muttered, quietly distraught. “Why, why would I follow your rules?” The question fell softly from between gritted teeth, his hands shaking with a mixture of terror and adrenalin. 

Harsh breaths ghosted across the back of Sidney’s neck, a whispered answer coiling on the man’s lips and slithering into his ear like a monstrosity. “To save him, to save your precious _Zhenya._ ” He wasn’t mocking anymore, he wasn’t teasing. There was nothing but a bone deep hatred, a sense of disgust so deep in his words that Sid could only wonder what he did to deserve it. 

“Mother Russia does not take kindly to you filthy westerner’s corrupting her children.” He spat, pacing a predatory circle around Sid, before striding forward and taking hold of his chin, forcing him to stare into empty blue eyes that had long ago lost what little humanity they’d had.

“Someone dies tonight Crosby, you get the luxury of deciding who.” 

\--------

If anyone noticed his brief absence they don’t mention it, and Sid is more than a little relieved. He didn’t have the strength to lie, not to his team. They bounced around the locker room in a flurry of pre-game antics, throwing around chirps and jokes that make the entire place echo with laughter. His own giggle honk was the loudest and the guys mimicked it so precisely that Sid laughed until he cries, but there was no telling if it was from the joy or from the sorrow.

Geno stopped him in the tunnel like he always does, and Sid went through the motions of their handshake with an affectionate grin. Still, it took every bit of willpower he had to not break down on the spot, when Geno tapped their foreheads together and whispered ‘I love you,’ quiet and low.

“I love you more.” Was the only response Sidney could muster, hoping his words weren’t lost to the deafening roar of the Consol crowd. 

He played the game like it was his last, weaving around orange clad defensemen like they weren’t even there. He threw around compliments like they were going out of style, wrapping his boys in rib crushing hugs each time the goal horn blasted. It felt like game seven of the finals, it felt like there was a Stanley Cup waiting to be hoisted. 

Sid wouldn’t make it that far though, his name would only ever be carved once. But as he flew down the ice on a perfect break away, scoring five hole on a flustered looking Emery, once felt like plenty.

Each second seemed shorter and shorter, the time he had left slipping away like water through his fingers. With a three minutes and four seconds left before the end of the second period, Sid skated over for what would be his final face off, smiling a bit sadly when he saw Claude Giroux on the other side. 

While he’d never been much of a fighter, Sid knew there’d never be another chance. He didn’t spare a second thought about dropping his gloves, launching himself at the startled Flyer with utter abandon. A rush of obscenities and less than choice nicknames poured from Giroux’s mouth as they swung away at each other, egged on by the pounding of sticks and the roar of the crowd. 

There was something freeing about it, and before the refs could haul them apart after they’d lost their footing, Sid uttered a quiet thanks. If he took a small amount of joy in the utter bewilderment on the other’s face as they were skated to the box, no one really needed to know. Claude’s insults, his rough hits had always made him stronger, and Sid could still thank him for it, even if he’d never understand. 

It was quiet in the penalty box, or maybe it was just quiet in his own head. Either way it was a front row seat to the greatest show Sid had ever seen. He watched Geno and Nealsy dance up the ice like they were headed for an open net, Flower standing tall in his crease with the taste of a shutout on his lips. Memories of Mario flickered to life and he could almost see the man out there where he belonged, skating alongside his team.

Luckily before he had the time to get too sentimental the period was up, the buzzer of Geno’s final goal ringing in his ears as he skated back to the bench.

Sid tried to soak in everything, patting Duper’s shoulder, tapping Flower’s pads. He reveled in the swell of familiar voices, and tried to memorize their faces, frozen in laughter. While Dan made a big show of reining them back in, insisting there was another period to play, Sid knew better. The game was as good as done. 

Fifteen minutes had never gone by so fast.

\--------

It wasn’t hard to slip away, not with the boys so riled up. Sid didn’t dare to say goodbye, unwilling to arouse any sort of suspicion that might put a single one of them in danger. Whoever was pulling the strings had done a damn good job of it. The halls were eerily vacant, his entire walk up to the tunnel uninterrupted.

But when he got to the end, open ice spread out before him, there was a little boy standing near the tunnel peering down. He smiled at Sid, bright and enthusiastic. Without really thinking about it Sid handed him his stick and his gloves, content with the way his face lit up and he turned to show his parents.

Sid wished he could tell them to turn away, he wished he could warn them to shield their childrens’ eyes. He wished his parents weren’t watching from home, he wished Taylor’s cable at Shattuck would go out. There wasn’t any use in wishing though, it was far too late for that. 

Seconds ticked by and he hovered for as long as he could before striding out onto the ice, effectively drawing the attention of the entire crowd. 

His hands shook by his side, and he fought tooth and nail hold back the hot rush of tears that filled his eyes. This arena had been his home, the sport had been his life, and his team had been his family...now they would all have to stand witness to his death.

A hush descended over the crowd, and Sid didn’t have to look up to know that his face was plastered on the jumbotron. He tried to smile, clenching his hands into fists as he watched the scoreboard clock tick away his final moments of life. But if there was one thing that Sid owed them all, for their loyalty and their support, it was what little bravery he could muster.

He wouldn’t give his murderers the satisfaction of seeing him on his knees. 

If they were going to kill him, they would have to do it while he stood tall at center ice. 

\--------

“Anybody seen Sid?” 

Geno asked, head tilted toward Sidney’s empty stall with confused curiosity. 

A quiet murmuring went up around the boys as everyone glanced around their general vicinity for their captain. 

“He was just here.” Duper muttered, his brow creased with puzzlement as he gestured to the open and noticeably vacant air to his right. “He stood next to me through the whole ‘keep playing your game’ spiel.” He added, earning a few nods of agreement and a slight glare from Dan, as he didn’t take too kindly to his well worded speeches being reduced down to ‘spiels.’ 

“Probably just went to get his blades sharpened or something,” Kuni shrugged and reached for the locker room door, and tried to jostle it open with his shoulder.

It didn’t so much as budge. 

“Forget how to work a door Kuni?” Tanner was on his feet, eyebrow cocked skeptically as he eyed his teammate.

“It’s locked.” The winger muttered, trying again at the second door but to no avail. 

Chuckling, Tanner ambled over to the first and tried to shove it open, his frown deepening with each failed attempt. “This door shouldn’t even lock from the inside.” He muttered, finally giving in.

“This is fun and all, but why don’t we just give Dana a call so we can actually make it back to the game, eh?” Craig reasoned, pulling his phone out of his duffle, only to find he didn’t have a signal. After a general check around the room it didn’t seem that anyone did. 

“Sid…” All eyes drifted to Geno as he stared worridly at the flat screen positioned above their heads. 

“What’s he doing?” Flower asked, amble over the Russian’s side and squinting at the screen in confusion. 

As the camera panned closer the intermission clock hit zero and a gunshot echoed through the arena.

\--------

Sid didn’t really feel the first shot, or the third, or the fifth. But he did hear the screams, the panic that consumed the arena as bullets tore into his shoulders, his legs, his stomach--obliterating bone and muscle, whatever was in the way.

They soared straight through him like he wasn’t even there and embed themselves into the ice, cracking it and splattering it’s pristine surface with a god awful shade of red. 

Sid could feel the blood welling up in his lungs, drowning him as he fell to one knee and then two, a bullet grazing his cheek as he went down.

Each breath was harder to pull in, and trying to stay upright was a battle he lost quickly.

Lying there, face down on the ice, while his vision went hazy and his limbs grew cold, Sid clutched a ring in his fist--a promise he would never get to fulfill. 

He didn’t regret it though, not one bit, so long as Geno was safe.

\--------

Claude sank to the ground, his hands pressed to his ears trying to block it out, trying to block _them_ out. It didn’t really help though, he could still hear them through the walls and through his hands. He could hear them screaming, beating the doors with their fists and their bodies, trying to get to their captain, trying to get to Sid.

His boys were doing the same thing, shoving chairs and sticks at the door, trying to get it to budge. 

All Claude could think about was the last thing Crosby had ever said to him, how he’d thanked him with that sad fucking smile. The idiot had known he was going to die, he knew and he still went out there and took it.

It was with a splintering crack that the door finally gave way, torn from it’s hinges by the combined weight of four different hockey players. 

While the rest of the team sprinted off to free the Pens, Claude stayed where he was huddled, staring at the carpet between his feet, afraid to close his eyes. All he could see was Crosby, face down in a puddle of blood, the image seared into his mind. 

Danny slid down beside him, pale and shaking as he clutched at Claude’s jersey and pulled him close. That’s when they noticed the silence, the sudden and all consuming lack of sound. Each moment dragged longer through the quiet, it felt like a wire pulled taut and on the verge of snapping. 

“ ** _SIDNEY._** ” The cry was strangled, grief stricken, and wrought with a pain so deep it had to belong to lover.

\--------

Mario was knelt at center ice, hunched over Sidney’s head as he tried to hold his son together, his face twisted in horror as the red washed thick and warm over his hands.

Tanner and Adsy both had a death grip on Geno as he screamed in belligerent Russian, tears pouring down his face like they would never stop. Begging for Sid to open his eyes, to come back.

While most of the team stood back in shock, knees giving out, and several stomachs rebelling against their contents. Flower rushed forward and pressed his hands against two of the five holes ripped through Sidney’s body, desperate to keep some kind of pressure on the wounds. But the blood kept flowing, welling up and running through his fingertips and spilling onto the ice. 

As paramedic’s flooded the scene, Duper had to haul the goalie back, Kuni coming to his aide when Flower tried to struggle, shouting in panicked French as they wheeled Sid’s limp body away in a flurry of shouted medical jargon. 

That was how they were left, in a deserted arena in a pool of their captains blood. Hockey, long forgotten.

\--------

“Kid, kid can you hear me?”

Sid cracked his eyes open just a fraction, glancing as best he could toward the voice that called him. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, disconnected and free floating like only good pain meds could induce. 

Everything just seemed to be a blob of color, fuzzy and undefined. 

“You’re not going to die kid, you’re not.” The voice was so confident, so strong, thick with an accent that felt safe and familiar. It almost made Sid think he had a chance. 

Except somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that was wrong, he didn’t want a chance, he was supposed to die, he _had_ to die... to save Geno, he _had_ to save Geno. 

“His heart rate’s dropping, start compressions…” 

Sid tried to shake his head, tried to get them to understand, but it was a little hard when there was some sort of tube down his throat. He could feel the pressure pounding into his body, trying to coax his heart into beating. 

“Come on kid fight, you hafta fight.” 

Don’t save me.

Please, _please_ don’t save me. 

A rhythm weak, but true came to life on the monitor and Sid wanted to sob in frustration. 

With what little energy he had left, he forced his eyes open to plead with his savior to let him go, to let him die. 

As the world came into better focus his newly beating heart stuttered to a near stop, what was left of his blood running cold with fear. 

Ice blue eyes, cruel and mocking were staring back.


	2. |December 16-17, 2013|

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d heard stories about Alex, about the expertly trained killer that lurked just beneath the surface of his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the chapter in which Ovie corrupts Russian youth and drags them into horribly dangerous situations.
> 
> While I don't think anything in this fic is especially violent, I will caution you that there is a fair amount of blood involved, so if that isn't your cup of tea I'd advise that you find an emergency exit.
> 
> There was also quite a bit of hand waving going on in regards to the lack of security in a hospital.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Real integrity is doing the right thing, knowing that nobody's going to know whether you did it or not.**  
>  -Oprah Winfrey
> 
>  
> 
>  

“Don’t miss.” 

Dmitry muttered gritting his teeth, knuckles white as he clutched at the steering wheel. He shot apprehensive glances at Alex regularly as the man’s profile flickered in and out of darkness, each passing streetlight casting him in a bright haze of yellow before vanishing into a another wash of black. 

“Don’t miss.” He intoned desperately as winter air whipped into the car, Alex shifting in his seat in order to stick a majority of his upper body out of the window. His gap toothed grin made Dmitri uneasy, wishing it was his finger on the trigger of the gun aimed at the ambulance two car lengths ahead of them. 

“I won’t miss Dima.” Alex muttered, his Russian slow and weighted as he lined up his shot. 

Dmitry scowled at the pet name, but he couldn’t help but watch the way Alex’s body went lax, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on their target. Each breath he pulled in was slow, deliberate in a way that made the hairs on the back of Dmitry’s neck stand on end. 

He’d heard stories about Alex, about the expertly trained killer that lurked just beneath the surface of his skin. It had been hard to believe them. All he’d ever really seen was the gap toothed grin of a captain that gave horrible pep talks, that built snowmen in the parking lot of the rink, and that had a picture of Sidney Crosby on his dart board. 

But when they’d gotten the call from Sergei that the Penguins Captain had been green-lit, Alex had gone rigid, remaining teeth clenched so hard that Dmitry had thought they were going to crack from the pressure. 

“Fuck.” Alex exhaled the expletive like it physically pained him, lowering the gun and slipping back into the car with a frustrated huff. “Change of plans Dima.” He muttered, eyes dark with an ire that made the younger’s stomach tighten with unease. 

“Sergei said…”

“I KNOW WHAT SERGEI SAID!” Alex roared, and Dmitry flinched back, accepting the grudgingly apologetic glance that Alex shot him. “Just get us to the hospital, preferably before Medvedevs’s personal bitch.” He muttered, fingering the trigger of the gun like he wished with every bone of his body that he would have been able to fire it. 

Dmitry didn’t dare argue, taking the first exit he could and breaking every speed limit that stood between them and the quickly approaching hospital. 

It was surprisingly, if not a little disturbingly easy to beak in. A pair of scrubs and stolen key cards were all that they’d needed to acquire from the poor saps on their smoke break, both of which Alex had knocked out with practiced ease. His cold efficiency and viciously determined gait made Dmitry all kinds of hesitant. 

Alex maneuvered the winding halls with purpose, mindful to keep them out of view of the security cameras. Dmitry followed his every movement, eyes flitting around nervously as they approached the morgue. 

It was empty inside, cold and eerily silent. 

“What now?” Dmitry breathed, hesitant to disturb the quiet stillness of the room. 

“We wait.” Alex muttered, tugging him into a supply closet where they were safely out of sight.

\-----

They stumbled into the waiting room with paparazzi on their heels, their jerseys still soaked in blood and vomit. Pale and shaken they collapsed into the too small chairs, curling into each other, uncaring of the flash bulbs and camera shutters that captured their moments of agony. It was hospital security that eventually forced the vultures out, offering mumbled apologies that fell on deaf ears.

Mario was the only one who seemed even remotely capable of functioning; his white dress shirt stained a brilliant shade of crimson, hands shaking at his sides while the nurse conveyed what she could. His shoes left rusty colored prints on the white tile as he dragged his feet in the direction of the team.

“He’s in surgery…” Sucking in a breath, he swayed in place, Kadar rushing to his side and to steady him.

“It—” his voice cracked painfully, drawing a flinch out of his already wounded looking players. “It doesn’t look good.” Mario all but whispered, unwilling and unable to give them any kind of false hope.

They waited in a miserable silence, staring at nothing in particular as the hands of the clock on the far wall made its unforgiving journey around, and around, and around. 

The few vacant chairs quickly filled and sooner rather than later it was standing room only in the waiting room. Front office administration pressed shoulder to shoulder with blood splattered team members, coaches and trainers milling around and handing out terribly stale cups of sludge that only half resembled coffee. 

Styrofoam cups piled up on every flat surface as everyone sucked down cup after cup just to have something to do as the minutes turned into agonizingly slow hours.

\-----

“Doctor?”

“Doctor his vitals are dropping.”

Sorrowful hazel eyes followed the flat line of the heart monitor, the cruel tone of a still heart ringing around the room. They tried valiantly to force breath into his pliant lungs, hands trying in vain to force a beat into a lifeless heart. 

“I’m calling it.” He announced stiffly, glancing at the clock on the wall above them. 

“Time of death—1:38 AM.” He muttered, discreetly tucking an empty syringe into the pocket of his coat.

Turning away as they shifted the body from cold slab of steel to another, covering it with a sterile white sheet, the surgeon shoved his way out of the operating room. The paramedic was waiting for him, scarred lips twisted into a vile grin, blue eyes cold and inhuman. 

“It is done.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue as he shoved the empty syringe into the man’s hand as proof. He mulled it through his fingers thoughtfully, his icy gaze shifting beyond the doctor’s shoulder to watch the sheet covered gurney as it was wheeled into the hall.

“Mother Russia thanks you for your service.” He replied brightly, clapping the doctor’s shoulder companionably. 

“My wife, my children?” The doctor demanded, his hands shaking as he reached out to block the lunatic’s path.

His sadistic smile only widened, scared lips pulling thin to reveal silver capped teeth. “My dear doctor, you’ll find them perfectly untouched…as they have been this entire night.” 

“You tricked me.” He croaked, watching the man stride away, commandeering the gurney and shoving it down toward the morgue. 

“You tricked me!”

\-----

A nurse, thin and frazzled pulled Mario from the room. Her words were gentle as she promised that the doctors had done all that they could, but his injuries were just too severe, the blood loss and internal damage too much for his body to overcome.

Everyone was on their feet when he walked back in, several dozen pairs of eyes pinning him down with the weight of their fragile hope. 

Tears, hot and stinging, overflowed onto his cheeks as he shook his head. 

“He’s gone, he’s gone…” The words were strangled with a father’s grief, heavy with a pain that would last a lifetime. 

Most of the guys collapsed back into their seats, a few like Brooks and Kuni missed their chairs altogether and slid all the way to the floor. 

Tears flowed unchecked as shoulders rose and fell in gasping sobs, whimpers of pain and frustration occasionally interrupting the constant chorus of sniffles and vicious eye wiping. 

Geno shoved his face into Kadar’s chest to keep from wailing, sucking in shuttering breaths that each had the potential to rip a cry from his throat. 

But Flower couldn’t find the restraint, he didn’t have the head space to process the fact that he had any control over his vocal chords at all…Flower _screamed_. 

“It can’t be true… _ **TELL ME IT CAN’T BE TRUE!**_ ”

He screamed and he screamed, frantically shouted French devolving into howls of agony as he threw himself at Mario, demanding that it not be true. 

It couldn’t be true.

\-----

Dmitry resisted the urge to cover his ears. He could hear the screams, hidden away in the morgue; he could still hear the shouts of Crosby’s teammates.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This wasn’t the plan.

“Now is not the time for cold feet Dima.” Alex whispered, sensing the younger defensemen’s unease. 

Before Dmitry could object to that statement –because Alex was delusional and this was certainly the most logical time to become wary of their current predicament—the morgue doors snapped open. 

“Remember the plan.” Alex breathed, the safety of his gun clicking out of place. 

Dmitry nodded solemnly , drawing a gun of his own. He watched Alex lift one finger, two, and then three. 

They shoved their way out of the closet, closing the distance between them and the gurney in three loping strides. 

“Drop it!” Alex barked gun trained square on the other man’s chest, his eyes glued to the syringe in the other’s hand. Dmitry watched recognition dawn in those cruel orbs of blue, scarred lips pulling down into a bitter scowl. 

“Sasha, Sasha…I should have known.” The tone cold and emotionless made the hair on the back of Dmitri’s neck prickle, his own gun held aloft in the direction of the man’s hand, and the syringe grasped in it. 

“I trained you so well and this is how you repay my generosity boy? Tsk, tsk. What would your dear mama say if she knew?” 

Dmitry felt more than saw Alex stiffen beside him, his easy stance gone rigid with something he couldn’t quite identify. 

“You know what mama Ovechkina would say Pyotr? She would tell me to give you a matching scar for the one I left on your lip all those years ago.” Alex sneered, launching forward and knocking the syringe from the lunatic’s hand. They fell to the floor in a scuffle of limbs, Alex’s gun clattering away. 

“Go Dima, go!” 

Dmitry sprinted the last few feet to the gurney, throwing his weight behind it and making for the exit. He only managed a few steps before a vice like grip around his ankle brought him to a stop. Glancing down he found Pyotr’s callused fingers clawing at him, Alex scrambling to keep the man down. He saw a glint of silver and a swell of red as his captain drove a scalpel into the other’s hand the grip going lax with a pained cry, and then he was gone, high tailing it out into the open air of the back parking lot. 

The car was right where he’d left it. 

Wrapping Sidney’s limp form in the sheet off his gurney, he hoisted the man’s body into the back seat, glancing anxiously back through the heavily falling snow for his partner.

\-----

“Piece of shit.”

Alex spat a bloodied glob of saliva at the crumpled body of his once mentor. 

A broken laugh ripped through the man, his eyes staring up at Alex with nothing but mirth. 

“You won’t kill me Sasha, you _**can’t**_ kill me.” He weezed. 

Kneeling down Alex met those cold orbs of blue, a grin forming on his lips. 

Pyotr smiled right back at him, his silver capped teeth glinting under the florescent lighting. 

Without a moment’s hesitation Alex plunged the syringe into the man’s back, grinning as he writhed from the pain of having a needle tear into his back. 

“How does it feel Pyotr, how does it feel to be stabbed in the back?” He hissed, watching those inhumanly cruel blue eyes roll back in his skull. Alex didn’t even notice the opening of the morgue’s doors, a pale and shaken doctor stepping carefully through the mess they’d left.

“You must leave, you must leave before someone finds you.” His Russian was thick with disuse and his hands shook as he collected the bloodied scalpel Alex had used to deliver scar he’d previously promised. “Go, you must go, the boy needs your help.” He insisted, motioning toward the exit as he started pulling the bloodied paramedic’s uniform off of Pyotr and hefting him onto one of the steel slabs, as if he were just another body. 

Alex watched him wearily, snatching his gun up from the floor where it’d fallen. “Give me a reason.” He muttered, cocking the weapon and aiming it square between the doctor’s shoulder blades.  
The shaking man raised his hands in surrender, turning to face Alex with earnest hazel eyes. 

“Know your enemies Sasha and know your brothers.” He whispered, lowering his hands.

Hesitantly Alex stuffed his gun back into its holster, sprinting for the back door without as much as a goodbye the second the man turning his back. 

He found the car idling just where Dmitry had left it.

\-----

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, _this_ wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t supposed to _die_.” Dmitry whispered, his sorrowful eyes meeting Alex’s in the rearview mirror, Crosby’s still form cradled in his lap.

“Don’t look so sad Dima, it will all work out in time.” Alex assured him in quiet Russian, his eyes refocusing on the stretch of pitch black road laid out before them. 

“We were supposed to save him, we were supposed to fucking save him Alex…” Dmitry mumbled miserably, and if he shed a tear or two for the savior of hockey, well no one could prove it.

“How do you know we haven’t?” Alex mused, glancing at the glowing numbers of the dashboard clock.

One minute passed in silence and then a second, it wouldn’t be long though, not long at all.

With a shuttering gasp the corpse in Dmitry’s lap came to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god this isn't crack. 
> 
> All will be explained... *waves hands in a mystical fashion*
> 
> Anyway I hope you like the update, if you want tissues or apology cookies or just some friendly chit-chit feel free to comment.


	3. |December 17, 2013|

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau wasn’t exactly sure how memorials started. He wasn’t sure what happened to all the stuff once they had to be taken down. But he knew that Sid deserve one, a memorial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm warning you now, you might need tissues.
> 
>  **“When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose them all at once; you lose them in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and their scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in their closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of them that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that they're gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.”** ― John Irving

Pascal sank heavily into the cushions of his couch.

He stared unseeingly at his fingers, how they trembled just like the rest of him. It felt like he was shaking out of his skin, floating away.

“Daddy?”

A small hand brushed across his cheek, wiping away the tears as they pooled numbly behind his eyes and spilled over.

Once they started they wouldn’t stop. The tears just kept coming, rolling down his nose and splashing into the palm of his hand. 

Kody crawled into his lap and Pascal clutched him instinctively to his chest, holding his boy with desperate determination. 

“Daddy you’re hurting me.” Kody whined, pushing at his father’s arms to no avail. 

“Pascal, honey?” 

He glanced up and met Caro’s frightened gaze, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. 

“He was somebody’s child.” Pascal murmured, dragging a hand through Kody’s hair. “His parents banaged his scraped knees and kissed him when he cried. They waited for him to come home from school, hugged him at the draft…” His voice broke, watery and pained.

Caro’s face crumbled, tears welling hot in her own eyes as she met her husband’s tortured gaze. She settled down on the couch beside him and wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders, pressing her tear streaked face into the worn fabric of his t-shirt.

They fell asleep like that, huddled together on the couch, too afraid to turn out the light.

\-----

Marc turned off the radio and pulled his key from the ignition.

It was snowing outside, gentle flurries of pearly flakes that soon blanketed his windshield in a thin sheet of white.

He sat in the silence, knuckles white from his vice like grip on the steering wheel. 

The car grew steadily colder, his breath coming out in frosty puffs.

Finally he let his grip relax, dropping his hands into his lap. His hands which had made hundreds of saves, but couldn’t manage keep hold of the one that mattered most. 

There was still blood beneath his fingernails, and every time he blinked he swore he saw his hands drenched in it. Red dripping hot and angry between his fingers.

Marc squeezed his eyes shut, and willed the image away. He drew in a shaky breath that seemed to fill him from the bottom of his stomach up. Instead of exhaling it, he screamed.

He screamed and he screamed and he screamed, beating his fists against the dash. 

The car echoed with his anguish, his ears left ringing from his own shouts.

His screams became sobs and he slumped forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, sharp pulses of pain from his battered hands the only indication that he hadn’t gone completely numb.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours that he stayed there, crying himself dry.

He barely even noticed the rush of frigid air that swept through when the driver’s side door was yanked open. 

Max was standing there, dusted in white, eyes haunted and bloodshot. 

“Vero called, she said you didn’t come home.”

Marc shrugged in response, dragging the back of his sleeve over his face. 

Max held out his hand and Marc handed him the keys silently before climbing over the center console and collapsing into the passenger seat. 

His ex-teammate drove aimlessly through the night, endless loops through and around the city.

Marc fought the urge to sleep the whole way, terrified of what he’d see. When his bleary eyed chauffeur finally pulled up to the downtown Marriott, he followed him inside without question. 

Other Flyers dotted the lobby, some were curled up in chairs and staring blankly into their coffee, others stood motionless, as if they’d become part of the hotel’s decor.

Max slung a heavy arm across his shoulders, but instead of heading for the elevators he steered Marc toward the couch that sat opposite of the low burning fireplace. 

Not a moment after they’d sat did Emery ease down beside Marc, and then the Schenns and Pronger joined as well. No one spoke, but their solid weight and warmth lulled the lone Penguin into and numb sort of calm. 

He finally slept and no one dared to wake him.

\-----

Patrick picked through Jonny’s closet quietly, selecting a few pairs of dark wash jeans and a handful of even darker sweaters.

He folded them meticulously before packing them away in the other man’s suitcase. Then came his underwear, socks, belts, ties, and two pairs of leather dress shoes. All of which were some shade of blue or gray or black.

His own bag looked almost identical in it’s contents, and Pat had a feeling that the same could be said for the rest of the guys too.

He glanced down toward the foot of the bed. 

Jonny hadn’t moved since they’d gotten home, their game cut short by the nationwide panic. 

From coast to coast the sports world had gone dark. Stadiums and arenas were locked down and systematically evacuated, players frantically ushered off fields, courts, and rinks without any explanation.

They’d sat in the locker room for a half hour, listening to an automated message on repeat, urging them to remain calm and listen to authorities. 

It was Q that finally broke the news, hands shoved deep into his pockets and brow furrowed. He’d also added that the team’s jet would leave at noon the next day, and anyone who wished to fly to Pittsburgh was welcome to. 

That was how Patrick found himself picking through Jonny’s clothes, zipping three plain black suits into individual garment bags. By the time their combined luggage was situated in the front entry way it was well past midnight, and Jonny hadn’t moved an inch, Patrick wasn’t all that convinced that he’d even blinked.

“Jon?” Patrick reached out and let his hand fall on the other’s shoulder.

He still didn’t budge, as solid as if he’d turned to stone.

“Jonny we have to get some sleep.” Gripping a bit harder, Patrick pulled him down onto the bed, manhandling him into a position that looked somewhat comfortable. He pulled off Jonny’s shoes and his pants, tossing them into a pile with his own. 

With the flick of a switch the room was plunged into a suffocating darkness.

Patrick laid down on his back and stared into it, utterly exhausted, but not at all _sleepy_. Beside him he finally felt Jonny shift, pulling the blankets tighter around his body. “I want it to be a nightmare, some horrible, twisted nightmare... I want to wake up.” He whispered, finding Patrick’s hand beneath the sheets and knotting their fingers together in a vice grip. 

“Me too Jonny, me too.”

\-----

Claude sat with his back against the headboard.

The tv was off, the curtains drawn. 

He wasn’t going to cry over Crosby.

He _couldn’t_ cry over Crosby.

 **Thank you.**  
 _Thank you._  
T h a n k y o u.

The man’s last words echoed in Claude’s ears, just like the memory of his wistful smile seemed to be burned into the inside of his eyelids, conjured up with each rapid blink of his eyes. 

“Why were you thanking me, why the fuck were you thanking me?” 

Raking his hands through his hair, Claude drew his knees to his chest and sucked in a shuddering breath. 

He wasn’t going to cry over Crosby.

He couldn’t cry over Crosby.

But he was going to cry for Sidney.

\-----

It was cold outside, cold and dark. He’d walked the three miles from the hospital to the arena, with snow getting stuck between his toes, hands stuffed into the pockets of his favorite striped hoodie.

Sid would have killed him for being so reckless.

Sid…

Beau exhaled a breath he hadn’t known his was holding, watching as the frosty white puff disappeared into the frigid night air.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do...I wasn’t ready for this Sid.” The words bounced around the courtyard, cutting through the night’s oppressive silence. “You promised you’d be there when I finally earned the C, you told me you’d shake my hand at center ice when I brought home the cup...you were supposed to be the Lemieux to my Crosby, the Gonch to my Geno…”

The tears came hot and fast, burning tracks down his icy cheeks before plummeting to snow covered ground below. His voice grew louder with each word, louder and angrier, but by the time he’d trailed off it was nothing more than a pained whisper.

Beau wasn’t exactly sure how memorials started. He wasn’t sure what happened to all the stuff once they had to be taken down. But he knew that Sid deserve one, a memorial.

He delved into the depths of his cargo shorts, pulling out a box wrapped in shiny gold wrapping paper and topped with a slightly squashed white bow. It’d taken him a few tries to get it right and the corners weren’t perfectly symmetrical, in fact they weren’t even that flat or corner like, but he’d made an effort to wrap it himself. 

It should have been a Christmas gift. When they’d drawn for secret santa the week before, he’d traded with Paulie, Nealer’s name for Sid’s. He’d planned on leaving his Captain a bunch of smaller gifts, one each week until Christmas, but now...

Beau hooked his finger through the tape, hastily pulling it all to shreds before stuffing the torn remains back into his pocket.

Inside was a little stuffed penguin, a bright yellow scarf tied around his neck.

He set the little guy on the statue, nestled safely against Mario’s ankle, tiny in comparison to hulking mass of sculpted metal that towered above it.

“Kid, hey kid!”

Beau nearly jumped out of his skin, turning warily toward the shouts.  
“It’s gotta be twenty degrees out here and you’re walking around in shorts and flipflops, are you crazy?” 

The man was older, his thin frame wrapped tightly in an overcoat, greying hair flecked with snow, and a camera strung around his neck. His sharp hazel eyes flitted from Beau to the tiny plush toy at the statue’s foot with dawning realization.

Beau knew without having to ask, that the man was a reporter, a buzzard waiting to pick apart the worst night of his life.

“Kid…”

“No,” Beau snapped, backing away. “I don’t want to give you a statement, or a story.” He bit out, hastily wiping away his tears on the back of his sleeve, braced to make a run for it if he stepped any closer.

“Hey I’m off the clock okay?” The man held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “But come on, you’re shivering from head to toe. Let me get you a hot cup of coffee, or a taxi.” He insisted, drawing his coat tighter around him as the wind picked up.

Beau crossed his arms over his chest, undeniably cold but unwilling to go.

“The city’s lost one Penguin tonight Bennett, I’m sure no one wants to wake up to the news that another froze to death outside of the arena.”

Beau’s eyes shot up, narrowing in suspicion. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve covered Pittsburgh sports since before you were born kid, I know all your names. Now for christ’s sake there’s a twenty-four hour diner around the corner, let me get you a coffee.” The man’s voice was edged with concern, a sad sort of sympathy in his eyes.

“Hot chocolate?” Beau muttered.

“Hot chocolate.” He amended, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it over the blonde’s shaking shoulders as he led him around the corner.

By the time the sun rose the little penguin in the yellow scarf had plenty company. 

The entire courtyard was covered in flowers, candles, notes, and plenty of stuffed penguins.

\-----

Mario sat on his patio, the sleeves of his suit stained a garish red.  
The sun creeped up over the horizon, a pearly orb of silver behind a thick blanket of clouds.

Snow covered the yard, clean and untouched. 

“I was saving this for when you retired.” He traced his finger reverently over the golden 87 emblazoned on the matte black finish of the bottle. 

“It would have waited years for you, decades even, if you’d been as stubborn as Jaro.” 

Mario stared at the wine, the bottle cold and heavy between his hands.

“If I can’t drink it with you, I suppose there isn’t much of a point to drinking it at all.” 

Sighing quietly, he got to his feet and made the journey back down into cellar. There was a special rack, one that held only five other bottles, each of them emptied. They were all the same matte black color, a golden number inscribed on the glass in the place of a label. 

There was a 99, every last drop drunk between him and Wayne. The first 66, shared between Nathalie, Jaro, and himself. The second 66, shared between him and Sidney. A 10, split three ways between Ron, Jaro, and himself. And finally the 68, drained alone by Jaro the night that he left for Washington. 

Sidney’s bottle slid perfectly into place, the looping gold caption beneath the number nearly glowing in dim light.

_My student. My captain. My son._

\-----

The bed was too big, too cold, too empty.

The hallways were silent and the stairs didn’t creak.

His presents were still under the tree, wrapped and waiting for a Christmas that was no longer coming. Bright yellow crocs sat beside the back door, a battered Shattuck baseball hoodie was slung over the back of the couch, and his smiling face stared out from the pictures in the hall and on the fridge. Their entire house echoed with Sidney’s absence, bits and pieces of him filling every nook and cranny with memories that hit like haymakers.

But the thing that cut the deepest, was when Geno turned around to ask Sidney about what leftovers were in the fridge and the space behind him was empty. It finally dawned on him that it would always be empty.

His husband was never coming home.

He’d never wear those yellow crocs again, or that battered high school sweater. His presents would never be opened and the out of focus picture he took of them drinking coffee that morning would be the last he ever had. 

Geno slumped against the front door, sliding down the solid wood until he met the floor.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket he punched in the familiar number and listened to it ring and ring and ring. He wanted to hear his voice, just one last time.

_We’re sorry but the voice-mailbox of the person you’ve dialed is full please call again later…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I felt like writing angst and sadness and somehow this happened. 
> 
> I owe you all apology cookies for all of eternity.


	4. |December 23, 2013|

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They buried it beneath a maple tree, in a cemetery on the outskirts of Cole Harbour, two days before Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tissues needed.
> 
>  **“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.”** ― Jane Austen

Snow fell softly from the white washed sky, settling on the shadow like procession below. A parade of black suits and black dresses headed by a horse drawn caisson, upon which a single, polished coffin rested. 

They buried it beneath a maple tree, in a cemetery on the outskirts of Cole Harbour, two days before Christmas. Instead of leaving flowers, the players left sticks, tiny messages scrawled in sharpy across their blades. Those got buried too, swallowed up by the shovels of dirt thrown in after them. Finally, when the ground was once again level, a rectangle of freshly turned dirt laid amidst the dying grass, they left.

They flew back to their cities, their families, and homes. 

Alex alone lingered by the gray slab of marble jutting up from the earth, boredly parsing out the gold inscriptions.

**Sidney Patrick Crosby**

**August 7, 1987 - December 17, 2013**

**“The Next One”  
**

It wasn’t the cookie cutter name and date that held his attention. It was the poem on the back of the gravemarker that truly entertained him, even managed to draw out a slight chuckle. Whoever picked it, whoever saw fit to have those words painstakingly engraved in ornate gold couldn’t have possibly imagined the truth behind them.

**Do not stand at my grave and weep.**  
 ******I am not there. I do not sleep.  
** **I am a thousand winds that blow.  
** **I am the diamond glints on snow.  
** **I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
** **I am the gentle autumn rain.  
** **When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
** **I am the swift uplifting rush  
** **Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
** **I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
** **Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
** **I am not there. I did not die. ******

“You will show them yet mahlyenki dyavol.” Alex grinned, drawing his suit jacket tighter around his shoulders. “You will show them all.” He whispered, laying down a sunny bouquet of daffodils.

\-----

Hazel eyes blinked open slowly, features of the room going in and out of focus.

There were lace curtains thrown open around a window, watery strains of sunlight turning the white washed walls a pale silver. It was snowing just beyond the glass, thick flakes that piled onto the near vacant sidewalks.

Figures loomed at his bedside, blurry outlines that wouldn’t stay still long enough for Sid to get a good look. Desperately he willed his fingers to move, inching them across the slate blue sheets until he managed to hook them around the white fabric of a labcoat. 

“Where-”

His voice cracked, brittle from disuse. 

“Sir?”

“Where am I?” Sidney tried again, panic welling up in his chest. 

“Sir, you’re at St. Luke Community Hospital in Ronan Montana. You were shot in a hunting accident.” 

_Hunting accident?_ That didn’t sound right, he was a fishing guy more than anything. Sid couldn’t even remember the last time he’d held a gun, if ever. And where the fuck was _Ronan Montana?_

“Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Letting his head loll to the side, it was too much work to try and hold it up, Sid allowed his gaze to drift. It wasn’t hard for them to catch his eye, a bright splash of yellow in an otherwise bland room. The daffodils were perched in a delicate vase, their petals already wilting.

\-----

_“Tell them nothing. You remember nothing.”_

Ovi’s gap toothed grin flashed to life in his memory, his hands cold where they clutched at his wrist.

Sidney glanced down and sure enough, five little bruises, a fading impression of the vice grip that had once been there. 

_“Tell them nothing. You remember nothing.”_

He remembered the edge to Ovi’s voice, the quiet desperation. Those six words, heavily accented and repeated over and over, until they were burned into his subconscious. 

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” 

Suddenly there was a face next to his own, obscuring Sid’s view of the flowers. Concerned brown eyes stared back at him through thick frame glasses, a pinch of frustration starting to settle in between them.

Sid blinked slowly, feigning a sense of fatigue that his body felt, but his mind was willing to ignore. He saw the moment the doctor gave up, straightening himself and muttering something about exhaustion and low blood pressure. 

They left slowly, mulling over charts and wires until there wasn’t anything left that they hadn’t poked or prodded. When they were gone, the room was finally quiet, save for the steady beep of a heart monitor and the gentle drip of an IV.

It was easy to fall asleep, the easiest thing he’d ever done.

But his dreams were far from peaceful, haunted by memories of blood stained ice and gunshots.

When he woke it was to a gap toothed grin and fresh daffodils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's far from over.
> 
> ((The poem on the headstone is by Mary Elizabeth Frye.))

**Author's Note:**

> Is everyone still alive, anybody hate me yet? 
> 
> *offers apology cookies*


End file.
